


Won't Go Back the Way I Came

by baylop



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Families of Choice, Feelings Realization, Fix-It, Multi, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Yondu Udonta Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-12-12 08:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baylop/pseuds/baylop
Summary: Most people would be thrilled to have a second chance at life. With Quill calling him Dad, his old Ravager crew checking up on him, and Kraglin doing a disappearing act, Yondu ain’t most people.





	1. A Fate That Was Owed to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Write_like_an_American](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/gifts).



> *Gingerly pushes a fic that doesn’t exactly follow the given prompt into Write_like_an_American’s birthday pile* 
> 
> Written for their prompt (which apparently I couldn’t truly adhere to, ugh): “Kraglin being super protective after GOTG Vol. 2 (where Yondu survives) and Yondu rolling his eyes but kinda enjoying the princess treatment”. This is...I don’t even know what this is (fluff? angst? flangst?), but I hope it’s tolerable. Chapter titles are lyrics lifted from “Rain” by Rag’n’Bone Man (ft. Kate Tempest), because Write enjoys the artist.

 

The light swallows everything. It ain’t _hot_ , per say, but tingles over Yondu’s fingers and coils around his ankles, muggy like the air in the _Eclector_ ’s galley late in the day rotation when leftover breakfast has been mulched into lunch and served for dinner. But the _Eclector_ ain’t no more thanks to him — save for a quadrant of it — and the air…

Air?

He _breathes_ , sucks in a crisp oxygen mixture without agony, and it’s...that ain’t...he’s supposed to be...

It shimmers back to Yondu in snippets: him smiling and ready to die, more proud of his boy than he could ever say; Quill, ruddy faced and emotional; Quill screaming at him, begging; Quill clinging to his body; and Quill...Quill with a flicker of something terrible awakening in his eyes, spiraling out all around in furiously stubborn tendrils of concentrated energy.

And now a light blocking out everything else.

Yondu’s seen a fair bit of oddities in his time, atrocities and squishy sentimental tripe and all sorts of things in-between, but this — being practically cradled by a power that could fell worlds, feeling a thrum of thoughts that ain’t his own ( _stay_ _with_ _me_ _oh_ _please_ _hang_ _on_ _please_ _don’t do this please don’t_ _leave_ _me_ ) circulating through his skull — well, it’s _new_. But he ain’t one to startle, especially when he knows what he’s surrounded by, knows without being able to see that Quill’s alive 'cause he can _sense it_ , and that’s all that matters.

It’s the _only_ thing that matters.

The fact that — _apparently_ — he’s still amongst the living don’t really percolate until someone else presses into the lucent space connecting him to his son. The light his boy’s got going intensifies and surges into something unstable. Yondu gets grabbed from behind and held close, as a panicked rush of other, different thoughts filters in ( _I ain’t lettin’ go dammit_ _Pete_ _control_ _it_ _oh flark_ _Rocket_ _better_ _be_ _ready_ _shit shit shit —_ ).

The light explodes like the death of a star, and everything fades away.     

 

*

 

His body feels like silk, weightless but upright. Pain is a memory. There’s a whirling above him, a steady cycling that’s all he can hear, casting out any chance at coherent thought for more than a meager stretch. His only view is the miserable expanse of the insides of his eyelids, and he tries to force for more, tries to see _what_ and _where_ , but the orders of his mind don’t seem to move his muscles a speck. Oxygen gets pumped to him via mask and tube — he knows this 'cause he can feel the shape of it cupped to his face, contraption dangling like it’s underwater. Maybe he is too for all he knows. Occasionally something else gets sprayed from the mask, cloyingly sweet smelling like the artificial flavorings Quill always insisted upon before taking medicine, scrunching his face full of freckles as he swallowed it down.

 _Quill_. The light. Someone else...Kraglin? And now...

Time ain’t got no meaning, wherever he is that don’t let him see and keeps him from rustling his limbs and widening his mouth to call out to whoever might hear. So he waits 'cause that’s all there is, floating in darkness, dozing in and out of consciousness, holding out for whatever comes next...

...and vowing to sock the idiot who decided to contain him like this once he gets free.

 

*

 

The whirling stops. Something gurgles as it drains, and Yondu ain’t a feather no more. His eyelids still refuse to budge, but his hands are up to the task so he swipes at the first meatsack that dares to grab him. That person, whoever it is, hisses and backs off, but there are others all around, others who bend his body and carry him away. Insults eternally bask on his tongue, but his mouth don’t cooperate and form the words he wants to spew.

They lay him somewhere flat, somewhere soft and dry. Bundle him in something warm. He flails 'cause there’s voices all around but nobody’s speaking to _him_ as they rush to poke and prod, and how dare they try and make him feel vulnerable.

He considers it a victory when his thrashing hits somebody where it’s tender, even as pain starts to munch along his spine. But that’s fine; pain’s a friend he’s known longer than any other; it’s worth it for the rush of control it brings.

“The IV — he’s gonna hurt himself — can somebody — ”

“I got it, Pete.” Long, bony fingers close around his own when he blindly throws another punch, gently tucking Yondu’s fist to his chest. It’s closely followed by warm breath tickling the shell of his right ear. “Easy, Cap’n, _easy_. Pulled you outta regen — ‘member those fancy things? You’re in a bed now. S’gonna be okay.”

Yondu don’t need no reassurances, he needs his yaka, he needs to stand and see and be ready for anything that comes his way, but his mouth only flaps his demands.

“Here.” Cold, thin metal gets pushed against his fingertips. “Your arrow’s been fixed, sir. Ain’t leavin’ the room, so you can rest now.”

Whether Kraglin’s talking about himself or the yaka — _and if the arrow’s reassembled, why don’t he sense the steady pulse of it?_ — Yondu can’t figure, but his first mate giving him orders ain’t something he can abide by.  

But apparently he ain’t gotta choice, since they give him something that makes him slip into sleep, even as he fights it all the way to unconsciousness.

 

*

 

When Yondu’s eyes finally crack open, it ain’t Quill or Kraglin he sees, but _Aleta_ of all people, looking especially severe in her swamp green leathers and hair knotted away from her face. He only gets a brief glimpse before the overhead fluorescence burns his eyes and Aleta’s countenance splits into four, all of the faces swimming in his vision with quiet concern.

“Fuck.” The word comes outta him like he’s run it through a shredder. Even with the dumb cannula he’s got shooting extra air up his nostrils, the effort to speak pinches his throat all the way down to his lungs. Groggily, he digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, pressing in and down to ease the sting there.

“And _hello_ to you too.” Aleta’s hand lightly smacks his forearm as he rubs harder. “Stop that. Your eyes have barely healed.”

Something else don’t seem right, a dull throbbing in his head he can’t quite place. But Yondu pushes it aside, removing his hands to absorb every bit of Aleta’s clinical gaze. “Where you keepin’ me?”

“Med bay of the _Starhawk_.”

He winces despite himself. “Stakar’s here, then?”

“Last I checked, this _was_ his flagship.”

“You ain’t funny. How long I been here?”

Aleta seems to consider it. “Two hundredths of a standard in the regeneration tank, and three day rotations getting beauty rest here in bed.”

Over a whole damn month. Hell.

He looks past the various wires sticking outta his body and the monitor screens showing his vitals. There’s a smattering of trinkets lined up on a far table, lil’ buggers he ain’t seen before. A flower that looks suspiciously like something Twig would grow is nestled by a well-worn deck of Terran playing cards, poorly stacked. Beyond that, a cubicle curtain cuts him off from anything else worth noting, save the empty visitor chairs.

He ain’t _disappointed_ no one else is around to greet him. It’s just unexpected, is all.

But Aleta reads him too well, parting the curtain to display two familiar lumps in red leather — one meaty, one scrawny — asleep and draped together on a med cot across the room; as if they’d been thrown there without much regard. The widened view also reveals a few medics dressed in Aleta’s green getup — not Stakar’s navy blues. Ladies who quickly busy themselves elsewhere real professional-like.

Aleta plants a hand on her hip. “Believe it or not, your first mate and that loud one there have been more difficult to manage here than you. Another of your associates was...most kind in getting them to settle down for a while.” She smiles knowingly. “Stakar’s been here too while you’ve been drooling.”

Yondu schools his face into something mundane, even as his chest clenches tight enough to mimic a mean case of heartburn.

But Aleta only smiles wider. “Honesty, you Ravager men. Continuously difficult, as always.”

“Feh. Not like you?”

Aleta shrugs. “I thought you’d prefer someone familiar overseeing your care here. Though Obfonteri did take some convincing.”

“Stakar’s facilities, you and your gals’ medical expertise...can’t imagine why givin’ favors to exiled crew would need _convincin’_.”

Aleta’s eyes try to convey something Yondu ain’t in the mood to decipher. “The others are here, you know. Every ship, every faction. We’ve all gathered together since the Ego incident. We’re here for you.”

Yondu’s mouth flattens into a tight-pressed line; he refuses to show outward unnerve that there’s entire crews around, assuming that ain’t a lie. He won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing it.

(It’s probably just jackasses diddling around to gawk. And if any Ravager who’s been given free rein by Stakar to thumb their nose at him wants drop by, he’ll give them something to see alright.)

Aleta frowns. “Are you surprised people care that you’re alive?”

Care, consideration, it’s all part of the same weak underbelly that leaves you exposed — a sucker begging to get masticated and spit out by the universe. He’s smarter than that. Better. Got the scars mapped over his skin to prove every lesson he’s learned. “Don’t care a whit if people care or not,” he sneers. “Don’t care for nobody and don’t nobody care for me.”

“Of course...I’d forgotten about your personal brand of bullshit.” Aleta shakes her head and turns to leave, and that’s _fine_ , he’s used to both. “Tell me how that goes for you when one of those two wakes up, and you’re surrounded by hugs and tears.” But she halts in the middle of the med bay, an inky line of leather and unkempt hair. “Also, I…”

“Now what?”

It’s only her back he sees. There ain’t much to gather there other than the way her shoulders roll like she’s gearing up for something unpleasant. “Nevermind. We’ll discuss it later.”

And with that she’s gone, leaving Yondu in the silent company of her med staff and Quill and Kraglin’s labyrinth of limbs.

Plus the odd pounding in his head he still can’t figure.

 

*

 

Aleta’s right about Quill, at least. He’s the first to wake, and his pink face scrunches something ugly with tears swimming in his eyes when he sees that Yondu’s sitting up.

“No take backs,” the boy declares as he strides over, fists balled up like he’s holding his sorry excuse for composure in the space of his palms.

“Don’t know what’chu mean,” Yondu rasps, weary of the way Quill looks ready to kill and cuddle in the same breath. At this point, Yondu ain’t sure which would be worse, but he’d put units on the latter — since what’s another shot at death to him, anyways? Been there, done that.

Quill looms over him, as fiercely uncaring of personal space as ever. “Yes you do, you old doofus.”

“Ain’t old.”

“Still a doofus, at least.”

“And you’re still an idiot who can’t create nothin’ better than a light ball with your powers.”

“C’mon. I used my heart.” Those tears of his start to fall, and stars be gone forever, Yondu’s gonna regret spewing that mushy advice for as long as the memory of it will last. “And it _worked_. Didn’t think you were gonna get away with callin’ me your son and then go and die on me, did you? That’d be a major dick move.”

“That right, boy?” If Yondu’s voice is quieter, it’s only 'cause his lungs still ain’t up to par.

“Hell yeah,” Quill insists. “And now, this is the part where you get hugged.”

That’s all the warning Yondu gets before Quill’s planting his behind on the med cot and leaning in.

It’s been done before — an arm hooked around a neck after a mission gone right, a squeeze of shoulders to rattle off the next great scheme or tell some half-remembered joke — but this is different. Yondu counts to five, then to ten, and still Quill hangs on, stupidly thick arms latched tight around Yondu’s back. A damp patch forms at the front of Yondu’s paper-thin med gown as Quill blubbers and calls him _Dad_ , while all the while, Yondu sits and breathes, hands limp at his sides, and wonders again if dying might’ve been easier than _this_.

“I...I need you in my life, you a-hole,” Quill says, once he’s regained the ability to string a sentence together without his voice fizzling. “You don’t get to run from that.”

Yondu fights not to squirm as he continues to be held. Idly, he glances to see what kinda audience they’ve got going on, but Aleta’s medics are outta sight and Kraglin’s...gone. Odd. Yondu sighs, and hell, maybe he is getting old. “Where am I runnin’ to with you squishing me like this, huh?”

 

*

 

The second day after waking, Yondu shucks off his med gown and threatens to go nude if suitable leathers ain’t produced. On the third, he discovers somebody’s gotten bold enough to cuff him with a tamperproof monitor that pings whenever he tries to yank out the various tubes attached to his body. By the fourth, he begins abandoning his cot and the encompassing med bay of the _Starhawk_ altogether, getting as far as he can while trailing IV tubes and oxygen support; at least until he’s noticed and — gently, always _fucking gently_ like he’s made outta glass — escorted back by Aleta, one of her gals, or Quill. Once by Twig and Rat.  

During those treks to assert that he can go wherever he _damn well pleases_ no matter what condition his body’s in, Yondu’s always sure to give the stink eye to any navy-clad Ravager he sees. But it ain’t many jailbird jaunts before he realizes that the crew members he spies ain’t just wearing Stakar’s navy blues, but a cornucopia of other colors — mustard yellows and midnight blacks and burnt oranges and all the rest. And thus, Aleta continues to be right, not that he tells her, as Ravager factions dot the view of every porthole he surveys, ships connected together in a rowdy web so it’s possible to stroll from one vessel to the next. Not that he’d want to.

(Aleta says they’re around 'cause Stakar’s summoned them, that what was initially an assembly — an assembly for _what_ , she won’t say — has morphed into a celebration of survival and mingling of old friends. Yondu tells her she’s full of it.)

Meanwhile, Quill saddles Yondu with his presence each and every flarking day for hours at a time, always with his physical displays of affection and a desire to _talk things out_ _and build a relationship_. The other Guardians are also a common presence, particularly Twig with his big, curious eyes and Rat with his wisecracks, barbs that only do a half-assed job of masking the hole inside himself that’s maybe a lil’ bit smaller and less empty than it was before. Less often are Greenie and Bug and Sourpuss who visit, filling awkward silences with Terran games of Go Fish and Old Maid since that’s all Quill remembers how to play. The only one of their ragtag group who don’t come see him is Nebula, and that’s ‘cause she’s gone off to kill her father.

(He wishes her all the luck in the world with that.)

At the other end of the attention spectrum is Kraglin, who stays a shadow.

In some ways, Kraglin’s _always been_ Yondu’s shadow, protecting his back, covering his blind spots, and identifying all the miniscule dangers that come with being both a captain and a wanted man across twelve Kree provinces. But since the whole deal with Ego going boom and Quill’s impromptu tentacle cocoon of life support, Kraglin’s taken the idea of being part of the background to an escalated level.

'Cause Yondu ain’t seen Kraglin’s face since Bug put him and Quill to sleep in the med bay. Not once.

There ain’t a sound explanation for Kraglin’s absence — not that Yondu cares, or misses his first mate’s quiet asides and unintentionally sultry gazes or nothing — but, well. Truth be told, Kraglin looking out for him ain’t a horrible thing. It’s useful, even, to see Kraglin alert and protective and on edge, muscles taut and ready to spring in front of anything that Yondu don’t like.

He ain’t sure where Kraglin’s currently spending his waking hours. He refuses gut his dignity any further than his brush-with-death recovery is forcing him to by asking Quill and the Guardians, or worse yet, Aleta. Really, he’s almost _impressed_ by the way his first mate is managing to evade him...but maybe evade ain’t the word for it, since again, that implies that Yondu _cares_ , that he goes looking for Kraglin when he wanders the _Starhawk_ ’s halls.

(And he don’t.)

 

*

 

Yondu stays busy. Day rotations rush by in a haze of discomfort and a sea of sentiment...and Kraglin ain’t present for none of it. Or at least, not directly, ‘cause by now Yondu ain’t stupid enough not to notice certain things.

Things like his pain meds getting administered exactly on schedule without fail, the medics sporting looks of those hounded into immediate compliance; something that Aleta and Quill seem amused by — rather than responsible for — when they see. Things like his meals being a rotating mix of all his favorites from years past on the _Eclector_ , with certain dishes in particular only previously eaten in the company of _one_ , from Dakkam sweetbreads to M’Ndavi roasts to Sszardil legumes, presented to him cooked and seasoned exactly how he prefers. Things like encountering Ravagers who are always harmless in their anonymity when he gets to roaming the _Starhawk_ ; people incapable of stirring any pangs of bitter regret or fitful longing. Never Charlie or Krugarr or Mainframe or Martinex. Certainly never Stakar. And who else but his string bean of a first mate would know that maybe Yondu ain’t quite ready for _that_ grand old reunion just yet, not when he ain’t well enough to walk more than ten bules without leaning against the railings for support. Hell, even Aleta herself stops teasing their whereabouts, and starts giving Yondu breathing room beyond her occasional escort of him back to the med bay. And that kind of tactful restraint ain’t never been her style.

(So yeah, Kraglin ain’t _around_ per say, but Yondu feels his smudged presence everywhere he turns.)

But the kicker in proving Kraglin’s lingering like a ghost is that when Yondu whistles for his yaka — on a whim, and _not '_ cause of niggling thoughts telling him that the odd sensation in his head stems from something he don’t wanna face — Kraglin comes barreling into the med bay.

Just in time to catch Yondu as he collapses.

 

 

 


	2. Dreams I Had Have Been Left Along the Way

 

When Yondu’s eyes fly open, Kraglin jerks back with an undignified squeak, eyes wide and shifty like he wasn’t just looming over him.

After scanning the room and seeing his yaka atop the bedside table, Yondu directs his scrutiny back to his jittery first mate, whose eyes dart from Yondu’s own to the exit and back again before he scuttles away to lean against the opposite wall, jostling the army of trinkets on the table.

Still in the med bay, but only just.

He seems thinner than Yondu remembers, and since it’s Kraglin, that puts him one rung above downright skeletal. The dark circles puffing under his eyes ain’t doing him no favors neither. The saving grace —  and only if you prioritize something like _smell_ over maintaining a Ravager-chic appearance —  is that he’s scrubbed clean, hair almost fluffy and buoyant, like it would be soft to cord his fingers through, to nuzzle down to the nape and gently —

Yondu scowls. “Ain’t seen your ugly mug in ages.”

“Yeah,” Kraglin says, voice reedy like he ain’t been talking much, but even so, Yondu still has to banish the fluttery feeling from hearing his first mate speak after so long. “I shouldn’t’ve —  m’sorry, sir. I’ll go.”

“What the hell for?”

“You don’t…” Kraglin’s mouth gapes and shuts like a wriggly lop fish exposed to air. But whatever words he’s trying to spit out lose their gumption when Rat saunters into the med bay with Aleta.

“Hey Blue,” Rat greets, dragging a slew of wire-tethered machinery behind him, “been told you’re havin’ some, heh, _performance issues_.”

Regrettably, there ain’t nothing in Yondu’s immediate reaching distance to lob at the fuzzy a-hole, but Kraglin, ever dutiful, slings a spiked trinket in Rat’s general direction and only misses him by a whisker.

 

*

 

Aleta injects Yondu with something pink and putrid, insisting that the stuff’ll keep him cognizant and upright while she analyzes his brain activity while whistling the yaka. With the nonchalance of browsing a menu at a dive bar on Knowhere, she runs her tests, comparing Yondu’s current bio scans to ones from six standards ago.

Scans Yondu’s surprised to find still intact and neatly catalogued so long after his exile.

(It stands at odds with his long-held belief of Stakar, Charlie, and the rest solemnly eradicating every last trace of him, save for shaving the seventh prong of the Flame itself, if only because six spikes would look funny on the Ravager patches.)

And as Aleta probes the neuro side of things, Rat fiddles with the prototype. He replaces it with another alloy base, and then another after that, his airy confidence slipping into a frown that deepens into a grimace as he works. Wires and literal sparks go flying as he uproots various parts of the _Starhawk_ ’s innards, considering them before tossing them aside, bushy tail slapping against the orphaned piles he creates like that’ll somehow help things along.

All the while, Kraglin directs silent ire at the arrow Yondu’s got twisting between his fingers, where there ain’t no trace of its power to be found no matter how many times Yondu tries to summon it forward.

So that leaves the four of them slipping into an unspoken cycle well into the night rotation, with Aleta calmly eying a series of monitors, Rocket tweaking the fin, Yondu irritably whistling, and Kraglin brooding as the yaka don’t even wiggle. Lather, rinse, repeat.

“Y’all have been at this for ages now,” Kraglin finally says from his place by the trinkets, voice still paper thin. “Why ain’t it workin’?”

“Why don’t _you_ shut up,” Rat snaps, kicking a third fin model across the floor, “and make yourself useful over here.”

“ _Seriously_?” Kraglin’s gloved hands ball into fists as he stands. “When I offered to help, you said I couldn’t do nothin’ right!”

“Can your beanpole ass work anythin’ above a basic circuit or solderin’ gun?”

“You ain’t never asked if I could —  ”

“Don’t start,” Aleta intones, idly zooming in on a cerebral holo-projection. “Or I’ll kick you both out.”

Kraglin dares to glare at her. “Ain’t your ship.”

“Nor is it yours, but here we all are,” she says simply, rotating the holo before changing the view again. “I know you’re concerned.”

“But are you?” Yondu derides as he cleans his fingernails with the arrow’s tip, since it ain’t being of better use to him. “Don’t seem so fazed by my lil’ predicament here.”  

Undaunted, Aleta matches his steely gaze. “I’ve been tracking your bio readings since your son and his companions brought you aboard. Until now I’ve only had my suspicions…”

“ _Suspicions_ ,” Yondu echoes, nicking his thumb pad with the yaka’s point. But not even the splash of blood brings the metal to life. Useless. He’s become useless. “You’re makin’ things sound mighty final.”  

“Nothing’s ever final, Yondu.” Aleta’s eyes soften so minutely most wouldn’t see no difference. “But you faced exposure beyond your biological limits, and I’m not sure that a dash of demi-Celestial light and being dunked in a regen tank automatically fixes everything. If you ask Rocket, I’m sure he’ll tell you that the issue isn’t appearing to be _either_ fin or arrow-based; it's with you.”

Rat’s tail swishes, fur bristled up to twice its usual size. He gives a low growl, but tellingly, he don’t correct her.

And Yondu smiles. Laughs. Because of course. _Of course_. “So y’all just been humorin’ me then, and my brain’s messed up. That’s nice.”

Kraglin shuffles forward. “Cap’n —  ”

“Did you know?” Yondu says, and Kraglin wilts a lil’ on the spot. “Sure came t’me quick-like, soon as I whistled.”

“I…” Kraglin’s face twists. “I wanted to know all the potentials, sir. So I asked Aleta — ”

“Bothered,” Aleta corrects. “Repeatedly.”

“And it were the cuff monitor,” Kraglin continues, eyes settling on the device looped at Yondu's left wrist. “Came ‘cause I heard you on it whistlin’, and Aleta’d said that you might not be so good if you tried that before she’d finished her scans. S’was just a hunch.”

Yondu’s jaw clicks as it tightens. “ _You_ put this fuckin’ thing on me?”

“It were Rocket who made it sir, I only —  ”

“ _Oh_. Yeah,” Rat says, voice rising about Kraglin’s sputtered protests, “let’s shove the blame for Blue’s baby monitor on somebody else. That’s the thanks I get for doin’ somethin’ decent. Figures.”

“C’mon fuzzball, I ain’t tryin’ to —  ”

“ _Fuzzball_? That’s rich, comin’ from a neurotic toothpick-lookin’ — " 

“I told you both to cut it out.”

“Aleta, you ain't — "

Yondu whistles outta longstanding habit from breaking up many a crew dispute. But instead of nothing happening —  or miraculously, the yaka deciding to listen to him and wash the room in its  molten glow —  his body judders forward and he retches, muscle fibers cramping in spastic twists.

Footsteps clamber over to him.

He gets an eyeful of Rat’s disquieted face before the edges of his vision start to swim, white and brown fur tussocks blending together. But Kraglin is the one who holds him through it as his body shakes, and for once Yondu ain’t in a position to push off his first mate.

“Sir,” Kraglin croaks, fingers rubbing shaky circles into the meat of Yondu’s back, “ _sir_.”

Aleta murmurs something about the _miru inhibitor wearing off_ once Yondu’s alert enough to wipe away his own frothy spittle. “That’s enough assessing for today, I think.”

“Today?” Yondu grits, mustering up enough energy to elbow Kraglin away.

“I’m not giving up if you aren’t,” Rat says, looking to him.

Aleta nods. “Nor will I.”

If they’re looking for further acknowledgement or flarking _gratitude_ from him, they ain’t gonna get it. Silence whittles the med bay to just the soft hum of monitors and machines, and ultimately, his audience takes the giant-assed hint to leave him alone to stew.

Kraglin takes the longest to make himself scarce. He loiters in the doorway that extends to the greater hall, and whatever he sees as Yondu stays bent in bed, yaka dangling limply between his knees, Yondu ain’t got a clue. But his ghost of a presence is practically soothing, and that scares Yondu most of all.     

So Yondu converges his attention on the forged metal in his hands, because that’s somehow easier to contemplate. He runs his gnarled fingers over the reassembled shaft, over the part of himself that’s become unknown to him beyond a phantom ache, and breathes.  

The next time he checks, Kraglin is gone, and Yondu tells himself he’s glad.

 

*

 

For the next few night rotations Yondu sits awake on the med cot he ain’t been allowed to altogether abandon. He feeds his veins miru and pushes stale air through puckered lips, trying to get his yaka to fly off the mattress in worn, fruitless repetition —  until his eyes glaze and his voice whittles to a wisp, or until the inhibitor burns through his system, leaving him with whole-body tremors instead of just the sensation of warbling into an unforgiving void.   

Aleta always gives him a _look_ the morning after, but she don’t give him no outright grief for it, not besides making him swear not to inject more than one miru vial per night rotation. Even leaves him a lil’ timer that goes off once the miru has run its course.

But Yondu knows she’s still running tests, just like he knows that Rat continues to strip parts of the _Starhawk_ , searching for some miracle piece of equipment or solution he ain’t never gonna find. All of it...just don’t get discussed. Or shared.

And hell, the very _idea_ of burdening Quill with his problems, or having Stakar, Mainframe, and the others get wind of it —  to have a slathering of his most recent failure passed around like a dollop of heady gossip —  is enough to keep Yondu’s mask of boisterous jackassedness firmly in place.

So one day Aleta finds him with his arrow holstered to his hip like it ain’t no thing at all, daring her to comment, to call his bluff and shatter the illusion of normalcy he's prepared to roll with in the interim, and when she don’t, well, that’s that.

 

*

 

Time marches on.

The last of the med tubes come out, and while Aleta lingers at the monitor cuff fastened to his wrist, deft fingers brushing at Rat and Kraglin’s handiwork, she leaves it be, and Yondu don’t insist otherwise. Supplemental oxygen becomes a suggestion he don’t take outside of the longest of his wanderings, strolls he’s allowed so long as he’s got a tagalong like Quill or Rat.

He discovers that the _Quadrant_ is docked proper in the _Starhawk_ ’s ship bay, so he makes a point to snag the Zune thingy for Quill on one of their shared treks over. He tries to force his face into something resembling detachment as he holds out the lil’ black contraption, the thing he’d gleefully bartered for in a junker shop on Nanda, assured it was the latest and greatest in Terran melodic technology. When Quill takes it, carefully worming the tiny speakers into his ears and eyes lighting up in delight as some boppy tune pipes through, Yondu battles the orange haze of mawkishness that overcomes him.

“I know it ain’t your old one,” he rasps, dismissive of his own gift as he casts a silent _fuck you_ to the ether of Ego’s memory. “Weren’t tryin’ to replace what your mama gave you or nothin’. Just figured...you might take to it, anyhow.”

“Of course,” Quill says, eyes wet and chin doing a wobbly thing that ain’t exactly becoming for a man nearly 35 Terran years grown, “it’s a present from my Dad.”

Yondu hums, trying for nonchalance and failing.

(Chest on fire as it always is whenever Quill says the word.)

But on their return to the med bay, when Quill offers up an earbud with a lopsided grin, cheeks shiny with freshly-spewed tears, Yondu takes the thing and jams it in, matching the easy, accommodating-yet-unacknowledged lope of his son as they listen side by side.

He knows the song. He knows _all_ the songs, having gone through the entire catalogue and already deleted the ones he didn’t like —  not that Quill needs to know that. And it’s a lil’ on the nose, this song by Cat-something or other, but that don’t stop the burble of contentment that curls over him as Quill smiles wider.

 

*

 

“I wanna see Stakar and the rest,” Yondu asserts not too long after, because he figures he's as ready as he'll ever be.

Aleta smirks, but it don’t exactly crawl up to her eyes. “It’s about damn time.”

 

*

 

Kraglin makes another rare in-person appearance as Yondu’s old crew files into the med bay, plastering himself like a sanguine blemish against the far wall.

His blue-grey eyes narrow to slits as Stakar hands Yondu an open porto-pad with a smile.

“It’s a full pardon,” Stakar says unnecessarily, like Yondu can’t get the gist of the formed letters blinking up at him in rows of neat text. “We’ve all got to talkin’, and we’re in agreement on this. Full reinstatement, return of titles and honors —  the works.”

“If you want it,” Aleta adds. “We’re not here to force anything.”

“First time for everything, I guess” Kraglin mutters.

But Yondu swallows, preferring to gaze down at the screen than meet the eyes of the former crewmates that fan around him in a flourish of colors. “And the other factions…?”

“Decisions are final if they come from the Seven,” Charlie reminds. “As a founding member, if you agree to the reinstatement, it goes through. Simple as that.”

“Yeah, well, y’all have been the _Six_ for some time now,” Kraglin snides from his place against the wall, arms crossed. “And what happens if them other captains ain’t so sold on the whole pardonin’ thing?”

Aleta looks to him. “They fall in line, or they aren’t of us.”

Kraglin grumbles something else under his breath, but Stakar’s voice is the one Yondu hears. “I’m serious in this, Yondu. We all are. That furry critter, when he called us and said what you’d done, the destruction reports were all over the news feeds from Hala to Arcturus. Ego’s terraforming, it would’ve…”

“You didn’t let us down,” Martinex supplies in that aloof way of his, making Kraglin snarl.

“Somethin’ like that,” Stakar allows with a half-shrug. “Point is, you did what none of us would, you did _good_ , and...I ain’t ever been more proud.”

As Stakar steps forward to retrieve the porto-pad Yondu regrets looking up, as he locks onto eyes brimming with such warmth and contrition that he has to stifle a shudder.

One of Stakar’s hands settles on Yondu’s shoulder, and it might as well weigh a million grets for the way it pins him down. “We want you back. Could even go out as a team again, steal some shit, you know?” And surely this is a dream. Or Yondu’s dead after all. Because no hell could be worse than enduring this. He needs time, he needs space, he needs —  “Sometimes I think that we —  I think that _I_ was too hard on you, Yondu. Not a day’s gone by that I haven’t —  ”  

“That’s enough,” Kraglin says, pushing off the wall. “Cap’n needs to rest and y’all gotta go. All of you. Visitin’ hours is up.”

Mainframe’s eyes flicker from green to pearled red. “There’s no sign for that! You’re like, totally making that up.”

Krugarr nods, and beside him, Martinex folds his arms. “You need me to give you a reason for more metal-capped teeth, Obfonteri?”

“Nah,” Kraglin says, flashing his silver smile. “Job you did on me when we was gettin’ exiled was fine enough, thanks. But if you’re lookin’ to throw down, I promise you I ain’t gonna just sit and take it this time.”

“Considering your lack of physicality, it won’t make a difference.” Martinex rolls up his sleeves and strides over to where Kraglin’s standing, close enough that their noses nearly bump. “Hope you enjoy eating slop mush.”

“Enough,” Stakar orders. “You two still got a beef, you settle it elsewhere.” He turns back towards the med cot. “Yondu? The pardon?”

Kraglin shoves past Martinex, shoulders squared. “I told you, Cap’n needs —  ”

“Dammit Obfonteri, I ain’t talkin’ to _you_ ,” Stakar says. “This is my fuckin’ ship and your ass is here outta courtesy.”

“Stakar,” Yondu calls faintly, remembering he oughta insert himself in the conversation instead of simply gawking at Kraglin’s innate ability to understand him so well. “Come back after a spell and I’ll give you an answer.”

At that, Stakar’s expression softens, but he don’t make to move away. “Yondu…”

“Of course,” Aleta says, coiling both arms around Stakar’s own and ushering out the others with a quick flick of her head. “Take however long you need to talk it through. The pardon applies to both of you, after all.”

But when they’ve left, Kraglin only gives Yondu a hesitant nod before slinking away himself. Alone, Yondu is left to consider all the ways Stakar and the rest of his old crew have made him feel like shit, and what it would mean to be back. Have a seat at the table once more for all to see.

(Be accepted in the way he certainly ain't _craved_ , returned to the fold of those who were the first to ever give a damn about him.)

He wonders how weak it makes him to want such a thing so badly.

 

 

 


	3. After the Lifeline Is Caught Comes the Working

 

More day rotations peel away, and Yondu’s usual posse of visitors keep him occupied. He lets Twig place a flower crown of his own sprouting atop his head for the span of six heartbeats before suggesting it’d be better as a wall wreath. He watches as Quill hesitantly forms a glimmer of self-supplied light between his hands, the tiniest of energy balls, and cackles when his boy proudly reshapes it into a cube. He allows Rat and Aleta to slip into his corner of the med bay unannounced and prod at his fin or his brain activity or any other thing they think will get his arrow back to working.  

But it’s hard to fully attend to any of it, ‘cause it needles at him, how Kraglin still keeps away. At this point, the blasted cuff monitor is all that ties them together —  the one Yondu has yet to demand that Aleta take offa him. If Yondu had any real inclination, he’d wanna suss out the reason for Kraglin’s self-imposed distance, but since that’d require confronting those unrelenting intangibles like _consideration_ and _concern_ , he don’t bother. Instead, he sulks behind the easy sass and smirks he presents to his onlookers, and pointedly ignores the yearning by degrees for a very specific presence.  

But maybe that starts to show on his face or leech outta him or something, ‘cause Bug addresses it next time she and the Guardians start up Go Fish, Round Fifteen.

“Oh.” Her antennae glow but she don’t touch him, since apparently that ain't a requirement no more to do her thing. “You are not in a good place today with your thoughts.”

(Yondu bites back a _no shit_ as he considers his cards, but only ‘cause she’s a sweet lil’ thing.)   

“You wish Kraglin were here,” she continues, serving up the smallest of smiles and oblivious to the warning in Quill and Rat’s eyes, “because you feel lov— ”

“Ahhhh.” Quill carefully clamps a hand around her mouth before releasing her. “Ixnay the L-word. He’s allergic to it.”

“L-word?” Sourpuss ponders. “Lost? Lonely? Loser?”

Greenie staunches an eyeroll. “ _Love_ , Drax.”

“I am Groot?”

Rat twitches behind his own cards, eying Twig on his shoulder. “Blue ain’t gonna die. You can’t _die_ from lovesickness. Ain’t a real thing anyways.”

Sourpuss don’t seem convinced. “That cannot be so. The musicians on Quill’s Zunatic often sing of broken hearts. And the heart muscle is often utilized as a metaphor for love, if you were not aware.” His brow furrows gravely. “Though perhaps it is simply an Earther plight…Yondu, do Centaurians suffer as such?”

Yondu narrows his eyes at all of them, crinkling the cards in his hands in a way that makes Quill take them away. “Only thing we suffer from is folks’ _stupidity_. And inability to shut up when they know what’s good for ‘em.”

Bug seems to consider this, biting her lip before pressing on. “But you would feel better. Speaking of your feelings, and letting Kraglin do the same.”

At that, Rat laughs, an obnoxious trill that fills up the med bay.

“I am Groot…”

“I'm sorry, I’m sorry,” Rat manages, mirthful as he turns his face away in an effort to stop tittering. “It's just...Blue and that beanpole...discussin’ _feelings_ …that’s…”

His laughter starts anew.

“I am certain Kraglin would feel better as well,” Bug insists.  “Just yesterday when I visited him, he spoke so mournfully of his desire to —  ”

“Now wait,” Yondu says, self-imposed moratorium not to ask after his first mate dithering with nearly a fortnight’s worth of frustration. “You know where the hell he is?”

“Kraglin’s still avoiding you?” Greenie don’t look pleased, but her annoyance is leveled at his boy, not him. “Peter, you said you’d already addressed this issue with Kraglin.”

Quill winces and mumbles about trying. Really. About Kraglin being maudlin and oversharing when drunk, and _see how your conversation with a guy turns out Gamora when you’re trying to get him to stop lurking around your Dad like a weirdo and then he goes and admits to boning that same Dad on the sly for years, derailing your whole awesomely-planned speech_ , and _anyways, wouldn’t it be easier to let things shake out on their own_?

But Sourpuss don’t seem to agree. “It matters not. The Ravager man is always present with his disinfectants and lectures about treating Yondu with the utmost care. For all the time he spends in the supply room across the hall, he ought to —  ”

Yondu is up and outta the med bay before anyone can tell him otherwise. The monitor cuff at his wrist beeps angrily, but he don’t pay it no mind as he reaches for a door he’s passed by dozens of times.

It’s locked, but that ain’t ever stopped him.

“Obfonteri, stop your skirtin’ and open up,” he hollers, rattling the door with every irascible bang of his fist. “Or I’mma break this thing down.”

(He can’t in his current condition, legs unsteady as a rulugi calf’s from the strut over, but that won’t impede his attempt.  And if Kraglin’s so flarking worried about his _health_ , surely he won’t want his captain staggering around for long.)

But just as he's heaving his weight against the door for the second time, the biolock deactivates and Yondu spills inside, a force of reckless, abrasive uncertainty. And too much momentum.

Smacking headlong into Kraglin is enough to send them both down to the floor grates like something straight outta that _Super Orloni_ cartoon Quill used to watch when he was still a pouchbrat. But the position they end up in —  with Yondu prone and half-straddling one of Kraglin’s scrawny thighs —  is much more _F’saki Nights_.

And, well, it’s been some time. Not since the lovebots of Contraxia, and not with Kraglin since Xandar, when Quill’s abrupt exit created such a malaise to his attitude that it was too much to be around _people_ , let alone bear the knowing touches of the only flesh and blood lover he’d ever taken. So the way Yondu’s cheeks dust a lil’ darker and a near purr breaks past his lips as he sits up is entirely justified. His palms balance over a barely-there ribcage, and his body is halfway to forgetting the anger he arrived with in the first place, because Kraglin is _here_ , quivering and warm and achingly familiar underneath him, Kraglin is all hitched breaths and clenched fists and…

Head turned away, face a twisted grimace.

Yondu follows his gaze, but there ain’t much to see. A sorry excuse for bedding in the corner and a crumpled change of underclothes. A charging porto-pad. Some other lil’ machine not unlike his cuff monitor and a few wayward tools. Besides that, the room is all medical supplies bathed in harsh fluorescence —  rows of vials and labeled bottles, gloves and gowns, packaged bandages and bone knitters and regen tubes and every other kinda thing Yondu ain’t got a full understanding of. A real home sweet home, for sure. Hidden. Apart.

_Distant_.

And his burgeoning libido dissipates.

“You been avoidin’ me, stayin’ here,” he says, glaring back down and settling his weight more forcefully. “You speak to Quill and Aleta and Bug fine, why not me?”

Kraglin’s inhale is tight, eyes unseeing as his head stays turned. His mouth seems to sample the words on his tongue before he says them.  “You got lots of people to talk to, sir. Don't need me messin’ things up no more for you.”

“Hey.” Yondu grabs a bony wrist, squeezing until Kraglin shows him those watery peepers of his, prettier than any shiny. Not that he’d ever say. “I can’t figure you.”

“...Does that matter?”

“You —   _hell no_ , I just —  if you’re outta sorts it looks bad on me, you know? Captain can’t have a first mate goin’ on like how you been actin’ lately.”

The laugh Kraglin gives is breathless, hollow. “We’re a crew of two right now, thanks to me. I’d reckon I’ve been a shit second to you for longer’n we’ve been on the _Starhawk_ , sir.”

“And how’s that?”

Kraglin bites the inside of his cheek, and Yondu can see the internal fight in his first mate not to look away. “It’s all my fault, sir. It’s all my fuckin’ _fault_. Everythin’ bad that happened to you, to the crew, the ship...it all got gone ‘cause of me. Shoulda kept my damn mouth shut on Berhert and waited ‘til it were private to —  ”

“Aw hell, still with the mutiny?” he gripes, feeling Kraglin’s pulse flutter wildly under his thumb. “I got exactly what was comin’ to me with that.”

“But I —  ”

“Poked a boulder that was already rollin’ down. That’s it.”

Kraglin shakes his head, indomitable in his conviction. “We coulda had the whole fleet to support us against Ego and the Sovereign, and instead you had to go it alone ‘cause I got everybody killed. And then I coulda gotten you —  I don’t...” Kraglin swallows, and his face pinches all over. “M’so sorry. Your arrow don’t work for you no more and I’m sorry, Cap’n.”

“The arrow.” Yondu goes still. “You got guilt ‘cause of the arrow. And now you...”

_Won’t touch me, won’t look at me fully. ‘Cause I ain’t nothin’ but a burden now. Somebody to care for outta pity._

It’s shameful how much the insinuation scours him raw, even when it ain’t nothing but the truth. But from _Kraglin_ , it’s ice shoved beneath his sternum, brittle and blue, and his teeth clench so hard a bitter pressure builds between his eyes.

And just like that, Kraglin realizes that something’s changed, because Kraglin won’t ever not know _him,_ even in all the ways that Yondu hates. “Sir, that ain’t what —  ”

“Shut up.” Yondu clambers off him and stands, ignoring the way it jars his equilibrium and floats the floor beneath his boots. “I ain’t got my _arrow_ to whistle right now but you best believe I can still do plenty. Don’t need you stickin’ around to fulfill some damn _obligation_.”

Kraglin stares like he’s looking through a fog as he sits up. All the blue in his eyes blurs into grey, and Yondu suppresses the urge to gouge the damn things out with his bare hands to be rid of every bit of power they hold over him.

“Cap’n, I don’t think you’re understandin’ me. I ain’t  sayin’ —  ”

“Shut. _Up_. Don’t wanna hear no more words outta you. Don’t want your help, don’t want you keepin’ tabs on me. M’releasin’ you from your first mate rank so you ain’t gotta bother, so consider this your last order from me. You remember those, yeah? Or is that somethin’ else that _don’t matter_ no more?” he spits. “Now get outta here, m’tired of seein’ your face. Don’t care where you go s’long as it’s away from me.”

He takes a twisted bit of pleasure in seeing Kraglin blanch, seeing him cowed as he manages a nod, because at least his words still have the ability to pierce even if his arrow don’t.

(And really, kicking a guy outta his own living space ain’t his best look, but Yondu’s past caring.)

When Kraglin brushes past him, Yondu makes a point not to watch him go.

The thin hiss of the door re-sealing reverts the room to silence, and Yondu adjusts the arrow holstered at his hip to occupy his shaking hands, metal cold as ever as he carelessly tugs. It don’t take much before the belt of it snaps with his rough fiddling, and he lets it fall to the floor, another thing ruined.  

 

*

 

As far as Yondu can tell, Kraglin does what he’s always done —  he listens.

In the morning, Yondu wakes to find the cuff monitor gone. Aleta’s gals don’t fuss over him like they used to, and his meals start reflecting Stakar’s favorites instead of his own. And when he roams the _Starhawk_ ’s halls, he comes across all sorts in their Ravager leathers, from Charlie and Krugarr who offer up ardent smiles, to other captains he ain’t seen since his exile, ones who’d sneered at him as Stakar announced his fate to the rest of the factions. Ones who ain’t no more enthusiastic towards his presence with the passage of time, and only seem to keep their mouths shut ‘cause of the weapon fastened at his hip, held in a new holster but steadfast in its continued indifference to him.

And that’s all just as fucking fine and dandy as can be.

 

*

 

Thing is, Yondu ain’t used to pent up anger.

Before Ego, before Taserface and the Sovereign and all the rest of it, when he was huffy he could rely on running his arrow through several hundred practice dummies in the _Eclector_ ’s training wing, or slice through any number of clients who dared to double cross him. And even before his yaka, before Stakar and his first dewy taste of freedom, he’d released every gret of his rage on the battlefield, gutting open Nova corpsmen and pretending all the while they were the Kree Uppers who owned everything but his spirit.

But things go slow now. He operates a feeble body that frustrates him with its fatigue, with the way his lungs light aflame if he walks too far or tries to set a pace above moseying. The listlessness offers him nothing but time to be alone with his thoughts, or be alone with people who present him with tenderness that slithers under his skin so sweetly it practically itches. He feels the white hot press of Stakar’s offer and the lil’ hints Quill’s started to leave about joining up with his group, and he fuzzes at how it's possible to want everything and nothing at all, stretched between the desire to make things right and make things true.

Figure out who he'd be without the title of Ravager or Guardian tacked to his name, because dying for Quill wasn't supposed to be a _beginning_ , but it just might be.

And so the anger builds. It bubbles at having too many options of what to do next, and being unable to commit to any of them with a measure of certainty. It surges at the scraps of well-intentioned carefulness sent his way when Kraglin ain’t ever mentioned again in conversation. It sharpens with every brush of the yaka against his hipbone, continuously worn for its outward show of strength to anyone and everyone that Yondu Udonta ain’t changed.

(Ain’t now just a tattered ex-slave with more mistakes to his name than years on his life.)

But the yaka connection stays gone. And every day he fails to whistle to life the metal he’d secured by returning to his miserable homeworld and completing the _hakta_ —  standing on ground tread by the parents who’d sold him for a lil’ bag of shinies, burning the heart of a kru-zkik beastie he’d killed solo, reciting oaths of glory and honor to a deity he’d long stopped believing in —  the resignation spreads like tar.

There ain’t regret that comes along with it. Yondu would never place any part of himself —  even the most famed, feared, and powerful —  above the life of his son, not ever. But there’s a wiggle of discontent at the loss, a strange, stormy pall of grief that he refuses to dwell on. So he tells Aleta to stop her testing, and Rat to stop his tinkering, and he don’t let them try and _console_ him.

“But this still stays between us,” he warns as he goes back to the med cot, voice verging on a grow as he smacks the yaka rhythmically against his open palm.

Rat stops packing tools littered across the floor. Scratches behind a twitching ear. “Don’t ever mind knowin’ stuff Star Munch don’t. But you really think he and your old Ravager buddies would treat you any different if you told ‘em?”

That’s an easy one. “Kraglin —  ”

“Is the same aggravating pain he was when you were first brought here,” Aleta finishes, releasing the knot of her hair and letting it spill around her face in inky, unwashed clumps. There’s a certain smugness to her tone Yondu can’t explain.

“You don’t know shit about —  ”

“Him _stickin’ around to fulfill some damn obligation_?” she parrots in a mocking, gravely twang as she disengages the last of his neuro logs from an overhead holo screen.

“You still ain’t funny,” Yondu says, stuffing the arrow back in its holster and briefly toying with the idea of shoving the damn thing in the nearest incinerator. “What’chu do, put a peephole in med storage and have yourself a lil’ look-see that day?”

Aleta shrugs. “You know voyeurism does nothing for me. But he monitored you, and I monitored him. Bugged his leathers after he decked one of Stakar’s men in mess for complaining about _waiting around for a fucking codebreaker_ and caused a full-on brawl. Stakar was livid. There were so many of his crew to patch up I had to send them to other ships.”

Rat perks up with a wicked grin. “Now that was a good day. Drax broke ten tables, I tested my latest stun spheres, Gamora had to calm Quill when he started to glow...”

“And that was while you were still in the regen tank,” Aleta continues. “Then there was the way he and your boy barricaded themselves there until you woke up, how he locked Martinex and the rest of the bridge crew out of Stakar’s quarters so he could speak with him unimpeded, the _second_ and _third_ fights in mess, the way he personally redirected upper level ranks whenever you were traveling through the halls…”

Yondu scowls. “You got a point in there somewhere?”

“Only that Obfonteri has made life hell for everyone aboard the _Starhawk_ for the entirety of your recovery.” Aleta stretches her arms overhead as she exits, spine yielding a string of audible pops. “And if you truly think that’s due to misplaced pity, then one of my oldest friends is a fool.”

By the time Yondu has some semblance of a retort, she’s already gone. Then there’s Rat, who zips away the last of his tools but stays put. The sidelong glance he gives makes Yondu glower. “What’chu lookin’ at? Gonna give me a lil’ partin’ monologue too?”

There’s a whole ribbon of words held in Rat’s eyes, a conversation that Yondu can unspool without either of them having to make a sound, ‘cause he’s Rat and Rat’s him —  building walls outta lived horrors, forming an identity around weapons carried, and pushing people away to avoid getting hurt. It’s a conversation Yondu ain’t in the mood to speak aloud.

So what Rat finally says is, “I look like the type who does that stuff? Professional asshole, remember?”

His tail flicks behind him as he pads over to Yondu’s cot. The mattress barely dips as he perches himself there, legs dangling over the bend. Nothing else gets said between them as they sit together, but there ain’t a need for it.

 

*

 

Yondu don’t dream.

As a slave, he never dreamed of mangled bodies screaming for the swift kiss of death. As a captain, he never dreamed of gap-toothed smiles and curious eyes turned to ash.

And now, he don’t dream about the crew he’s lost. He don’t conceive pulling off a grand heist with Stakar and the rest, together again but never fully returned to what they used to be. He don’t imagine completing a mission alongside the Guardians, only to discover it’s a dynamic he ain’t got a place in. He don’t envision Quill dying in the process of trying to protect him, all ‘cause he ain’t able to hold his own.

He don’t dream about none of those things. And whenever he jolts awake from his not-dreams without knobby joints pressed into his skin and the whuff of steady breathing grazing his neck, it only takes a quick reminder that everything’s as it should be.

 

*

 

Three Terran weeks after waking to Aleta’s face, there’s a boiling in his bones, fever bright. There's the 99 factions he's surrounded by and Stakar’s patience as he waits for an answer and Quill’s hope for traveling the stars side by side and Kraglin’s imposed absence and a million other things he ain't got a reference for dealing with...and nothing to do but sit and attempt peace with his own conscience and uncertain future.

And Yondu ain’t never been good at that shit. So naturally, it’s time to busy himself.

He tries to convince Quill to let him take the _Quadrant_ for a spin the next time they’re going over the ship’s specs, but the boy don’t bite. He shows Rat a list of the nearest collectable bounties, Nova-backed payouts for real unsavory types, and gets an urging to _rest up Blue_ for his efforts. He staggers into the _Starhawk_ ’s massive training complex —  using the walls only a lil’ for support and tugging an oxygen tank behind him —  only to be eased back out by Martinex and Aleta. Lectured about the _ongoing recovery process_ and his _need for patience_ and _obele le bole bolebo_ _blah_.

So he adjusts his approach. Waits until Quill, Twig, and Rat say they’re off to meet with Stakar. Waits until the lull hits as Aleta’s staff change shifts, until the foot traffic outside the med bay has slowed to a trickle —  because if sitting on his ass for so long has taught him anything, it’s the typical schedules of those around him —  and leaves the supplemental oxygen behind as he exits.

It’s a long walk unaided, but he knows where he’s headed.

Knows exactly what he needs.

 

*

 

“Fight me,” Yondu says, planting his feet and trusting that his legs won’t give out anytime soon. “That’s what you’re all about, right?”

Sourpuss blinks at him where he sits polishing his knives. Sets them down with more reverence than Yondu would expect before standing. “That would be unwise. Your body is decrepit. It would not withstand the onslaught of my attacks.”

“I don’t give a wet fuck,” he insists, ignoring his would-be sparring partner’s nonexistent enthusiasm and the cold creep of fatigue threading through his muscles. “What, you scared of a lil’ thing like me? Don’t tell me you’re a coward, now.”

Sourpuss folds those massive arms of his over a chest carved like Mintoshi marble. “Quill said you might apply such tactics with me. On this day, your pathetic attempts to satisfy your wily desires will prove most unsuccessful. I will not be goaded into engaging in a physical altercation with you.” Sourpuss nods to himself, decision made. “I suggest you return to your area in the med bay for further recuperation.”

It ain’t that often that Yondu misjudges people, but he’s gonna get the bout he wants, the reprieve from the expectations and delicateness that everyone around him keeps lavishing him with. He racks his mind for what would get the big guy riled up enough to get their lil’ tango started. And then it hits —  because Yondu’d made it a point to get the scoop on all of Quill’s jolly compadres after Xandar  —  and the words fly outta his mouth, a knowing, dirty lie he ain’t above brandishing to get his way. “I saw ‘em, you know, when I nearly died. Your wife and daughter.”

“...That cannot be so.”

“You better believe it. Fierce and proud, the both of ‘em. Only they were so disappointed. In you.”

Sourpuss stops breathing for a moment, and Yondu knows he’s got him proper. _Just a lil’ more then._ “It was so clear to see. Clear as you standin’ right here in front of me. They said you were supposed to avenge them —  ”

“I helped vanquish Ronan —  ”

“But Thanos? The big purple fella in the golden chair is still out there. Livin’, breathin’,” Yondu drawls, even as it starts to feel like he ain’t got enough air for the words he wants. “Nebula’s gone after him. But you? How’ve you been occupyin’ your time?”

Sourpuss gives what might pass for a flinch. “There have been other matters to —  ”

“What’s more important than gettin’ retribution for your dead? Why, lil’ Kamaria could barely speak your name, she was so hurt. And Hovat? Woman was fully convinced you’d forgotten all about ‘em. Found a new, better _family_ to be happy with, and —  ”  

“LIAR! DO NOT SPEAK OF THEM AS SUCH!” It’s like Sourpuss has doubled his mass in one quivering breath, and Yondu feels something drop in his stomach before straightening up himself, because this is what he’s wanted, a fight, a release…

Dizzy, everything’s dizzy, but Yondu grins and welcomes the fire in Sourpuss’ eyes, the snap of a bulky, clenched fist careening towards his body; because this is bloodlust, perfect and pure and so far away from responsibilities and decisions and reflections, from Quill’s affections and Stakar’s forgiveness, Aleta’s observations and Rat’s understanding, the Guardians and the Seven, the living and the dead, the guilt and grief and uncertainty and love and Kraglin Kraglin _Kraglin oh stars_ —    

Yondu cries out, but Kraglin is the one who falls, lanky body curling in as he receives Sourpuss’ direct punch. There ain't enough air in the room, and Yondu slumps down too, one hand clutching his chest like that'll make breathing bearable again and the other grasping shakily for his stupid not-anymore first mate. There’s a large hand reaching out for him, and it’s the last true thing he sees before spots explode in his vision like the Colors of Ogord.

 

*

 

Apparently, Sourpuss ain’t so pissy that he can’t _not_ drag Yondu’s nearly-unconscious ass and a wheezing Kraglin back to the med bay. Big fella even manages to comm Quill before stomping off to presumably the opposite end of the _Starhawk_. When Yondu fully wakes, Quill’s is the face that greets him, and if it’s possible for a grown-ass man to look with _disappointment_ at his recently-acknowledged father figure, well, Yondu makes just as sour of a face right back at him.

Foregoing the stupid nasal cannula and bedrest a medic implores him to use, Yondu grabs an oxygen mask, huffing in supplemental air in occasional spurts as he stares sullenly at Kraglin on the med cot across from him. Already, Kraglin's tied his jumpsuit off at the waist, undershirt, scarf, and gloves cast aside so Aleta can scan over the damage Sourpuss has inflicted to his torso. Yondu puts enough intensity in his gaze to burn several holes through Kraglin’s scrawny hide, and when their eyes meet, Kraglin is the first to look away and hunch into himself. At least until Aleta tuts at him to _sit up tall and breathe deep_.

Turns out, Kraglin’s got four fractured ribs. They ain’t clean breaks, so Aleta announces he’s earned himself a round of bone knitting. Kraglin reluctantly accepts, but only ‘cause they’re still on the _Starhawk_ and Stakar’s footing the medical bills. Once the med staff fetch the machines and get them suckered onto Kraglin’s concave chest, Yondu kicks everybody else out, undeterred by the med unit’s indignant grumbles, Quill and Aleta’s expectant nods, and Kraglin’s hesitantly quizzical look in equal measure.

By some small miracle, Quill is quick to make himself useful when he exits, occupying the outer hallway and fielding any and all prying eyes away from the med bay. That includes Rat, who’s only miffed he can’t berate Yondu any closer than the doorway for being so _d’asted dramatic_ and Stakar himself, who demands from somewhere in the hall to know why Yondu has brought _so much fuckin’ fuss_ to his ship _._

But Yondu ignores it all as he flings away the oxygen mask and shuffles over to where Kraglin’s crossed-legged and staring down at his hands like they’re a fucking revelation or something.

With the worst glare he can muster —  for all the good it does since Kraglin ain’t looking —  Yondu parks his ass at the foot of the bed, anger molding into something softer against his will. “Gave you an order to leave me be and you didn't follow it. So I guess you really ain’t my first mate no more.”

“Not unless you want me to be,” Kraglin says quietly, mouth drawn tight. “Sir.”

“What’chu do a thing like that for?”

Kraglin blinks up at him, eyes pretty as ever. “Coulda gotten yourself hurt. Won’t never stand for that. No matter how much you hate me.”

“I don’t hate —  I was gettin’ to fightin’,” Yondu continues, refusing to be derailed. “I wanted to. I was fine —  gone up against worse all the time. Gotta….gotta maybe get back to usin’ my fists and blasters some. Ain’t good to be rusty or nothin’.”

The unspoken _now that I can’t use my yaka_ sticks to Yondu’s tongue and stays there.

“I get that. But you’re still healin’.” Kraglin bites his lip, a slice of silver digging into barely pink flesh. “And you ain’t got nothin’ to prove to nobody. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re...you’re more than your arrow, sir.”

“Don’t,” Yondu says.

“M’serious. S’what I was gettin’ at _before_. You...you ain’t so good a pilot, and yeah, your aim with a blaster is a lil’ outta practice. But there ain’t nobody better at charmin’ people or craftier in a scrap or brave enough to —  I mean. Just. You ain’t gotta be sure about what y’wanna do with yourself, s’all.”

Yondu fills his lungs with a staggered breath, because at some point, he should stop being amazed at Kraglin’s ability to read him so well.

“What I’m sayin’ is that you got options and time aplenty to think about what you really want. Where you wanna go, what you wanna do…”

“Or who,” Yondu muses, just to watch Kraglin get flustered. “And what d’you want?”

Kraglin shakes his head. “Already got more than I deserve.”

“Says you. Wanna hear you get greedy. What do you _want_? Like if you could be anywhere, do anything. What’d that be?”

“Anywhere?” Kraglin gnaws his lip. “Well...there's these forests on K’ai…”

“And?”

“And uh, I seen ‘em on a nature vid series, and they got waterfalls there as high as Xandar’s Nocord Tower. Water’s so clear s’practically see through, and there's umbik shoots that grow so tight all you can hear is the leaves rustle. Supposed t’be real peaceful, you know? Then there's this town on Tsorcherhi where they apparently got a hundred types of soup that they make every day, only everybody makes a different kind and you gotta go to each shop to try ‘em all, but you gotta go and get the wilik noodle early ‘cause that’s the most popular. And on Queeg there's a beach filled with these pods of —  what’s so dang amusin’?”

“Your stupid face,” Yondu says, and it’s only a half-lie. He reaches up, tracing his fingers along the fine scars at Kraglin's temple, then up to his hair, tangling his digits in a too-clean mohawk, confirming the softness there he's only speculated on from afar. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout travelin’ myself. Get away for a time, stop givin’ out orders to anybody. See how that feels.”

“‘Til you figure things out.” If Kraglin’s surprised, he don’t show it. “And uh. You’d do that alone?”

Yondu bites back a smirk. “...Wouldn't mind company.”

At that, Kraglin almost looks pleased, but the shine is quick to fade from his face. “I...I still can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout what I done. Did you and the crew so wrong...”

“Enough of that shit,” Yondu says, loud enough that his lungs protest the effort. He twists the silky tufts of hair he’s still holding, making Kraglin look up to meet his gaze. “I made my own damn choices —  ain’t nobody ever tellin’ me I ain’t got a say in what I do, including you. I agreed to that Sovereign gig, I whistled through our crew, I blew up our ship, I had you cover us on Ego, I grabbed Quill —  all ‘cause I _wanted to_. If I’d died for that boy I wouldn’t have regretted it. And just so you know, you wanna be sad about Tullk, Oblo and the rest, go ahead, but I sure as hell ain’t. Not like that. Cause I’d space all of ‘em myself before I’d give up _you_ , y’got that?”

A low, agonized sound crawls outta Kraglin’s mouth. “S’what I did,” he whispers. “It were them or you. Had to choose.”

That night...pain at a place he hadn’t felt since he was a boy, enough to make him sick with it. The screams of his loyal crewmates, the jeers from all the rest —  everything dimmed in the face of his failure, in doing none of it right. Kraglin standing there all the while…

Kraglin watching that the brandished blades never cut to kill, that nobody shoved an old man without his magic stick outta the airlock.

_Them or you_.

Yondu furiously swallows the lump glued to his throat. “I know that, you idiot.” Kraglin hastily nods, but there’s tears welling in his eyes and he’s got a snot bubble blooming and Yondu hates every bit of it. So he yanks him over by his ears and smashes their faces together to make it stop, misjudging Kraglin’s lips only a smidge. The rush of it makes Kraglin flail for a heartbeat before winding bony arms around Yondu’s shoulders, pressing tight and blithely ruining any progress the machines have made in knitting his ribs back together.  

“Coulda lost you,” Kraglin murmurs against Yondu’s mouth, trembling in place and breaths puffing against the broken seam of their lips, “don’t know what I’d do with myself if —  ”

Yondu halts his words with a second pressed smear of his mouth. Pulls Kraglin further onto his lap so he’s bearing the scant amount of weight he has, feeling every jut of bone as it digs into skin. “Thought I told you to _hush_ ,” Yondu says irritably, but his eyes are soft and speckled with every bit of sentiment he’ll never say.

Kraglin’s mouth quirks with a trial of newfound confidence. “And I thought you was maybe done givin’ orders.” The scratch of his nails over the ridges of Yondu’s spine tease secret circles. “So make me.”

The challenge stands without the accustomed tag of _sir_ or _cap’n,_ and it’s uncharted territory. But things have changed some.

(‘Cause Yondu has screwed over the Sovereign, smashed a drill rig into a Celestial asshole, and admitted parenthood to Quill. He’s held a staring contest with Lady Death herself until Quill and Kraglin and Rat pulled him outta it. He’s endured warm touches of pride and unabashed forgiveness from his old crew. He’s held civil conversations and card games with the Guardians. And _stars be gone forever_ , he’s tolerated daily hugs from Quill for three weeks now and counting. Maybe even returned some of them, hands hesitantly gripping into the boy’s jacket like he weren’t quite sure it was all real.)

Somewhere out there, on another dimensional plane maybe, or a different timeline —  Yondu ain’t got a mind to understand the possibilities —  he’s dead, body ground to dust and lost to the stars. But that ain’t him, not yet. Much as it pains him, he’s got life in him left to live.

Ever the same, and entirely different. And maybe Kraglin is, too.

So he licks into Kraglin’s mouth, and lets him do the same. Kisses him wet and open in a way they ain’t never done, in the way he knows Kraglin’s always wanted but ain’t dared to hope or try for. In the way that maybe, Yondu has always wanted as well, fit to bursting with a brightness he’d die a thousand deaths to keep.

Clarity runs through him.

“Got a gift for you,” Yondu says, steady and sure, before stupidly long eyelashes flood his vision and Kraglin’s leaning in to kiss him again.

It’s easy enough to get Kraglin up against the headboard, sprawled out and only a mite regretful when Yondu pulls away once more. It’s easier still for Yondu to fish the yaka from its holster and press it to a clammy palm, trapping the metal between white and blue.

Yondu tries for a leer, even as the tips of his ears go navy and that squishy organ in his chest skitters in titillation of what he’s willing to offer to the only person who’s earned that kinda trust.

Kraglin blinks. “ _Cap_ — Yondu?”

“You ain’t gotta decide straightaway. Just...consider it.”

And Yondu’s got a running list of all the shit he needs to do. Give an answer to Stakar and the rest of his old crew. Officially gift Quill the _Quadrant_. Buy Sourpuss a mug of slugtap or something, cause he _ain’t_ saying sorry, not without being five or so brews into inebriation. Plan a stars-damned vacation.  

But all that and more comes later.

Because Kraglin’s grinning at him, a goofy, tender spread of a smile, and squeezing their clasped hands together.

And for now, all Yondu needs is directly in front of him.

 

 

 


End file.
